The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) (20 page)

thirty

It
was reassuring to me that each breath I drew echoed loudly inside my gas-mask. 
It gave me a distraction from the shroud of black fear and ominous expectation
which had fallen over the air in the Basement as we trooped down the passageway
towards the Dungeon door.  It also reminded me that I was still alive, for now.

The
atmosphere down here already felt different and the terrain somehow
unfamiliar.  It was getting very dark, that atomic darkness of thousands of
particles buzzing away from my eyes, creating spectres that shied from direct
sight.

We
waited by the Dungeon door so that our eyes could adjust to the marmite gloom. 
Barrington indicated to Doctor Boateng to inspect the time.  Then, with a look
and a nod towards each of us, he heaved his shotgun up in his right hand and
pushed the door open calmly.  He paused, holding up his hand.  But, hearing
nothing, we followed him through into inky blackness and Samson eased the door
shut behind us.

As
we neared the Crypt, the Dungeon became faintly brighter.  A lurid orange glow
was dancing from the door, which was slightly ajar, and the clods of soil in
front of it cast demented shadow-puppets onto the stone wall opposite, where
the coffin-boxes had once been stacked.  The ritual had begun.

We
followed Barrington towards the door.  Doctor Boateng was brandishing his
trembling twelve-bore uncomfortably.  Though it looked out of place in his
hands, like a crow-bar stuck up a tree, I knew that he had served in the Army
and that a gun was far from unfamiliar to him.  Samson was trooping forwards
with an air of self-assurance, but his eyes, wide, white and darting, betrayed
his fear.  I was no better.  My throat was dry and I could not swallow.  I
scarcely dared to blink and my fingers twitched on the triggers I held in my
hands.

Colonel
Barrington then leant into the door with his shoulder and pushed steadily.  It
scraped open slowly.  Keeping one controlling hand on the door’s edge, he
pushed it wide open and then stepped back, almost knocked back by the blast of
tepid, stinking air which billowed out.

At
the far end of the Crypt, I could make out the figure of Caratacus.  By the
epileptic orange light which guttered from a circle of candles laid out on the
floor around his feet, I could see that he was draped in a rough robe
emblazoned with African symbols in black, yellow, green and blood red patterns,
making it look like the skin of a snake, exotic and deadly.  His arms were
outstretched by his sides, and his whole body was jerking like he was being
electrocuted.

But
it was his face that unnerved me more than anything.  His eyes were wide and
unblinking like he was gripped by an unremitting terror.  He looked drawn and
haggard in the deranged candle-light, which inscribed his face with dramatic
furrows.  His mouth was opening and closing frantically, spitting and baring
his teeth.  And I realised, when I was able to hear above my breath, which
sounded short and sharp in my gas-mask, that he was chanting something in a
strange tongue.  It sounded like guttural French, but with far too many
consonants.  His voice did not seem like he owned it.  It sounded like it was
coming from another place.

Between
him and us, in areas the light avoided, the thick, damp air seemed to be
shifting and fomenting into demonic shapes.

But
then I realised.  These were not tricks of the candle-light or spectral
illusions.  These were boys.  There were five or six of them staggering and
ungainly, barging carelessly into one another, their faces ragged and
wild-eyed, drooling and gnashing.  And they were heading directly towards us.

Barrington
must have noticed them just as I did.

“Let’s
get to work,” he said, as one of them lurched towards him.  It was Pendragon,
from my year.  His face was sickly green and his blood-red eyes recessed deeply
into their sockets.

Barrington
held out his right arm and grasped the nozzle from his nitrous oxide canister. 
Just as the boy lunged towards him with a flailing arm, Barrington unleashed a
jet of cloudy gas which blasted powerfully into Pendragon’s face and knocked
him stiffly back a few paces.

Samson
and I were too stunned to move.  We watched as Barrington released the trigger
and the cloud of gas dissipated into the gloom.  Pendragon was motionless and
his face was blank, just staring emptily.  But then one of his eyebrows
twitched.  He blinked and looked from Barrington to me and Samson.  A look of
confusion flashed across his face.  He then looked down towards his hands,
which he turned over as if they were unfamiliar to him.  And then a very
strange thing happened.  He started to snigger.  Then he giggled and guffawed. 
And then he was just beginning to laugh out loud, when his body crumpled
underneath him and he fell asleep.

I
stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Come
on,” said Samson, pushing past me to get into the Crypt.  “We’d better get
started.”

I
could see the silhouettes of other boys shambling towards us.  I took a moment
to swallow my terror and then I plunged into the Crypt after Samson, towards
these abominations, letting loose a jet of nitrous oxide from my right hand
into the face of one which took a wild, unco-ordinated swipe towards me.  It
was Bunting, a quiet, bookish boy from the Fourth Form whose eyes and mouth
looked as if they had already begun rotting at the edges, and as the billow of
gas settled, I saw him blinking at me, chuckling lightly until he slumped onto
the floor, fast asleep.

I
stepped over him and released two streams of gas, one from each hand at a pair
of zombies lumbering in my direction.  The first was Rainwater, a very tall
Fifth-Former, who hit the floor straight away.  The other, reaching forward, tripped
over the sleeping form of Rainwater and then started dragging itself towards me
on its hands, lashing out at my ankles with flailing arms.  It looked up at me
and I recognised with a shock that it was Freddie.  He looked ghastly, like he
hadn’t slept for a week.  There was absolutely no recognition in his eyes.  He
wanted to kill me.  I drowned his face in a jet of gas and, as it cleared, I
saw him clutching his ribs and laughing uncontrollably. 

I
stepped past Freddie and past Samson, who was spraying a First-Former whose
name I didn’t know.  There was some frantic activity in my peripheral vision. 
I looked up and saw that it was Caratacus.  He was still in the centre of the
circle of candles and Fetish-dolls, but now he was jerking around rabidly like
an insane string-puppet.  His eyes were rolling deliriously and foam was
frothing from his muttering mouth. 

Suddenly
a force smashed into my right hand side, tripping me over a sleeping boy and
bundling me onto the muddy, gritty floor.  I struggled to my feet to see my
assailant bearing down upon me.  His back was to the candle-light, so I could
not make out who he was.  All I could see was the black outline of a boy who
was a good deal taller and broader than me.  He lashed out and again knocked me
off my feet.  As I went down, I pulled the triggers in both hands.  But I
couldn’t see where he was.

I
released the triggers and the cloud parted.  But the boy had not fallen.  And
now he was standing over me and there was something in his hand.  A heavy plank
of wood, swinging by his side.  And I could see his face now and it was not one
I recognised.  It was not one anyone could have recognised.  It was horrific,
rotting and wild.  The flesh, what little there was left of it, was congealed
and hung loosely from his cheekbones and chin.  There was one eyeball, but the
other eye was nothing but a socket squirming with fat maggots.  He shrieked
outlandishly and raised the plank of wood above his head.  I watched
helplessly, pinned to the floor by his foot.  I realised with horror that this
was an old zombie, already quickened, and that the gas would have no effect
against it.  There was nothing I could do.

And
as I watched, helpless as he was about to bring the wooden plank crushing down
on my skull, there was a deafening, reverberating crash.  His head exploded in
a cascade of flesh, bone, gore and maggots which splattered around and upon
me.  His body teetered above me for a few moments, a plume of smoke wisping up
delicately from his unburdened neck like a volcano which has stopped erupting. 
Then the plank slipped gently from his hand and clattered on the floor by my
feet and his body flopped backwards and collapsed.

Colonel
Barrington was standing over me, lifting his gas-mask to blow at the barrel of
his shotgun.  He held out his hand and dragged me to my feet.

“We
need to fall back.  Akwasi, Edmund,” he ordered, “fall back!  We need to
regroup by the Dungeon door.  There are too many of them now.”  We were already
stumbling backwards towards the Crypt door.  “We have probably cured about half
of them, but there are too many of the old zombies in there now.”

We
were stepping cautiously back through the Crypt door, when the unmistakeable,
cowled skeleton of the Wandering Monk shuffled out of the depths, with the
Black Dog loping by his side.  The dog let out a menacing, deathly howl.

“The
old Bokor,” muttered Barrington grimly.  “Edmund, change of plan.  You and I
must stay here and deal with these two.  They may be very strong.  You two boys
back away to the Dungeon door.  We’ll see you there shortly.  Stay together and
keep gassing the boys.  If any old zombies get anywhere near you, just run. 
Okay?”

thirty one

With
the sound of shotgun-fire ringing out from the Crypt above Caratacus’
persistent chanting, Samson and I backed through the Dungeon passageways
towards the door.  The air was cooler and cleaner here.  I leant back against
the wall to regain my breath and Samson hunkered down with his hands on his
knees, panting.

“What
time is it?”  I asked with my voice muffled by the gas-mask.

“Dunno. 
Must be about half ten,” he said.  “How much longer can this go on?  How many
more do you think...”

“Shh,”
I whispered sharply.  He stood up and listened as we heard someone stumbling towards
us from the direction of the Crypt.  I quietly pulled the Dungeon door ajar so
that we could make a hasty escape if necessary.  We waited.

After
a few moments, a lonely figure limped out into the passageway, dragging its
left leg awkwardly.  For a brief moment, candlelight flickered out and
illuminated its sorry, sunken face.  It was Milo.  He hadn’t seen us.  He
turned right painstakingly, away from where Samson and I waited and hobbled
further into the Dungeon.

Samson
patted me on the shoulder and we set off after him.  But, as we crept past the
corridor leading to the Crypt, another figure sprung out towards us.  This one
was a fresh specimen displaying none of the usual ravaging effects of
quasi-death and burial.  It was Reggie. 

“Reggie,”
said Samson.  “What happened?  Where have you been?”

Samson
was about to set off towards him when I held him back.  “He’s not right,” I
said.  “Look at him!”

He
looked exactly the same as he had about three hours ago, but it was clear that
he hadn’t recognised or heard us.  He had a vacant, confused expression,
staring blankly into the middle-distance, with his mouth hanging open,
drooling.

“Caratacus
has given him the poison,” I whispered.  “You go after Milo and I’ll see to
Reggie.  Get back here as soon as you can...”

I
marched towards Reggie, releasing a blast of the antidote with my left hand. 
In the billow of gas, I heard a chuckling and then the sound of a dead weight hitting
the floor.  I stood back, waiting for the haze to dissipate so that I could
check that I had dealt with him effectively.  But as the vapour thinned, I
could make out the outline of a shadowed figure standing in front of me. 

The
cloud cleared and my heart missed a beat when I came face-to-face with Head
Matron.  She was about fifteen feet away from me and had a syringe in her right
hand.  There was a look of strange intensity which I had never seen on her face
before, almost like she was excited about something, though I knew that
couldn’t be possible.  One corner of her mouth was curled up slightly into a
faint, wry smile. 

“Time
for your medicine,” she croaked.

She
strutted towards me, her high-heeled shoes clicking at a brisk tempo.

I
turned and ran towards the door as fast as I could and, looking back over my
shoulder, I saw Samson just as he headed out of sight, following Milo around
the second turning in the Dungeon passageway.  I realised I would have to try
to get Head Matron to follow me away from Samson so that he wouldn’t be caught. 
I pulled open the Dungeon door and waited for her to emerge.  When she got to
within ten feet of me, I set off again, just jogging this time, towards the
door to the Spiral Staircase.  And again I waited.

I
lured Head Matron past the bottom of the Spiral Staircase and out of the door
on the other side.  And then I set off at a run past the Woodwork Room, ducking
into the Shower Room and heading through into the Junior Changing Room, with
the clicking of Head Matron’s shoes becoming more and more distant behind me.

I
stretched the gas-mask away from my face briefly just to relieve the discomfort
pinched into my nose and chin.  The familiar odour of the Changing Rooms crept
into my nostrils.  It was that musty, muddy smell of boisterous pursuits;
linseed oil and towels drying over hot water pipes.

The
Junior Changing Room, like the Senior Changing Room further down, contained
three rows of lockers back-to-back down the middle and a row on either side. 
Strictly, I suppose, they were not “lockers” because they did not lock.  They
were, rather, small doorless wardrobes, each containing three pegs for Games
kit and a space underneath for plimsolls, cricket-spikes and wellies.

I
crept over to my locker, which was wedged into the far corner.  It had to be
the best place for me to sit and wait - a short dash to the Senior Changing
Room and close enough to the exit to the Basement Corridor.  The zombies would
be able to see me in darkness or light, so I flicked the light-switch.  Only one
of the strip-lights in the room responded and even that one was indecisive. 
But it was enough.

So
I sat in my locker in the flickering gloom, listening to Head Matron’s shoes
clicking distantly and, in my head, trying to pinpoint where she was. 

And
then an unsettling thought occurred to me. 

It
was something Barrington had said about zombies.  He had told us that
Caratacus, when he is in his trance, is using the zombies’ eyes like they are
his own.  He could see everything they could see and he could command their
actions.  So that must mean that if one zombie knew where I was, then Caratacus
knew where I was, and if Caratacus knew where I was, then he could send any
number of zombies after me.  So, I was not just hiding from
one
zombie. 
I was hiding from
all
of them.

The
clicking stopped for a moment - near the Showers, I thought.  But then it
started again, only this time from another place.  It sounded like she was
walking past the Boiler Room and through the Senior Changing Room.  How on
Earth had she got there so quickly?  And now the snapping of her footsteps was
echoing confusingly from all directions.  I stood up with my eyes darting all
around, disoriented by frenetic light.

But
then I could hear her clearly, approaching to my right.  Yes, I was sure she
was in the Shower Room.  Or was it the Senior Changing Room?  I started to feel
panic brewing.  I glanced towards my remaining escape routes to gauge how long
I could wait before I had to run.  The sound of her high-heels seemed to have
taken on a different quality now, not so much clicking as crunching, like the
guilty sound of football boots indoors. 

The
footsteps paused again.  And then suddenly she stepped out of the darkness and
was there in front of me, not six yards away. 

But
this was not Head Matron at all. 

It
was a skeleton draped in a ragged, rotten boiler-suit.  Its skull-face, puce in
this flashing light, was a twisted expression of demented glee like it had been
waiting for a long time for this opportunity to kill me.  The Fallen Boy.  I
was rooted to the spot, drenched in harrowing fear and here he was.

Before
I could take the heartbeat opportunity to dart for safety, he ran at me and
lashed out with a cruel hand that slammed into the left side of my face with
sickening force.  I tumbled, dazed, into my locker, my gas-mask clattering away
into some dark recess.  There was a deadening pain in my left eye.  I flapped
my hands around and tried to stand back up so that I could run.  But as I
stumbled to my feet, trying to shake the dizziness from my head, he hit me
backwards again with a bruising blow to my ribcage that stole the breath from
my chest and caused my left shoulder to land painfully against a hard object in
the corner of my locker.

There
was no escape for me now.  I was gasping for air, my head was spinning and the
Fallen Boy was advancing upon me.  I let out a brief, futile jet of antidote
with my right hand, not concerned that I had lost my gas-mask.  But it barely
distracted him.  I scrabbled around inside my locker, grasping at anything to
throw at him.  Gym shorts, cricket jumper, ball of socks, jock-strap.  These
were surely the last desperate flailings of a doomed boy.

But
then my hand fell upon whatever it was that had been digging into my left
shoulder.  The handle of my cricket bat.  My trusty old Hunts County size six,
passed down to me from my father, and which I was sure I had left up in the
dorm.  It was my last chance.  He was only a couple of yards away now as I
tried to stand. 

With
my head still whirling, I grasped the handle with both hands and sprung up into
the air out of my locker, swinging my bat above my head.  With all of my
strength and my fiercest war-cry, I heaved it downwards in a crushing arc,
smashing it into the Fallen Boy’s cranium.  The top half of his head
disintegrated into a shower of bone-shards and squirming brain.  And, just as I
landed rather unsteadily on my feet, he landed on his back, twitching once and
then no more.

My
head was still hurting, but at least the room had stopped swimming around me. 
I had to get out of here.  Head Matron could not be far off and would know
where I was.  I cuffed the blood away from my nose and set off out of the
Changing Rooms and down the passage back towards the Dungeon with both gas
canisters on my back and my dear cricket bat in my left hand.